


Bloody Knuckles on Scarred Skin

by orphan_account



Series: before they let us go hs!au [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: M/M, Michael has some anger issues, by some I mean a lot, so warning for that i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-01 01:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5186963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael has a few issues, sure, but doesn't everybody? Of course, not everybody gets into knock-down drag-out fights just to feel some semblance of being alive, but that's beside the point. Beside the entire goddamn point. And he just can't understand why this kid is so focused on stopping him from his own willful self-destruction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, disclaimer, this is HEAVILY inspired by Aimee(hausofgreene.tumblr.com), Myles(s-peake-easy.tumblr.com), and Penelope(queen-willems.tumblr.com)'s Funhaus AU (it's called "Switchblades and Gym Class, and it's super fucking radical). It's also updating every week, which should be pretty cool, I guess.

It had started off as just a way to feel something again. A way to keep the ever encroaching darkness from taking over. Just a little dustup behind the bleachers here, a quick fight in the gym locker room there. It was his little fucked up way of feeling better. Ray self-medicated, Gavin was a workaholic, and Michael? Michael liked to brawl.

Nothing that ever came to light in front of the school administrators, of course. Oh no, Michael was too careful for that.

He always made sure that there were no witnesses, nobody to snitch on him to the cops. Until one day he’d gotten cocky. Started a fight with some guys in broad daylight.

He couldn’t remember much from the fight itself. It was two of them against one of him. Someone had brought out a knife. A shiny chrome switchblade that looked like it belonged more in the hands of a movie villain than a scrawny varsity jock. One of them had kneed him in the gut, sending him to the ground and blurring his vision. That was it, it was over.

For the first time in his life, Michael Jones had lost a fight. And he would’ve lost a lot more, maybe even his life, if some guardian angel in a leather jacket didn’t chase the guys off before they could cause any more damage. He saw the guy sock one in the jaw, and heard it snap like a dry branch. They scampered off, and all Michael could catch before he passed out was the guy in the jacket getting closer.

\-----------

He woke up on an unfamiliar couch that smelled like smoke. The room spun for a second, before he could finally focus on the peeling floral wallpaper and shabby carpet. He sat up slowly, the ache in his ribs more present than ever. He went to put a hand to his chest, and noticed that his knuckles were covered in a mix of cloth bandaids and cheap plastic Hello Kitty ones.

He wasn’t used to seeing his wounds bandaged. He was used to the blood running down his hands in rivulets, used to the iron tang of it in his mouth. Used to patching himself up with paper towels and duct tape, and whatever else he could scavenge from the garage before his parents noticed the welts rising on his arms.

He looked around the unfamiliar room, seeing the little details of it. There wasn’t much furniture, just the couch and a ratty old armchair that looked older than he was. A coffee table dinged up and scratched, covered in knife marks. Knife marks?

There was a folded sheet of looseleaf on the table, and Michael grabbed it.

“You left your phone unlocked so I called your mom. She asked for you to come home as soon as you woke up. I left so you wouldn’t be suspicious of my intentions, but this is my house, so please be nice and don’t rob me. And call me next time you want to get into a fight. You look like you could use someone that knows how to patch you up.”

And then there was a phone number at the bottom. Michael practically bolted off the couch, folding the paper into his pocket. He opened the front door, expecting to see some thug standing there, ready to shake him down for everything in his pockets. Instead he just saw the same street he’d been knocked out on. He closed the door with a quiet click, and caught a glance of the name on the mailbox stuck to the peeling aluminum siding.

Haywood. So his savior’s last name was Haywood. Or at least, that was the name on the mailbox.

He hurried home, crossing through alleys, and hopping fences, ‘til he ended up at his own front door. He knocked a couple times before his mom answered, all smiles, and asking how his math project had gone. That boy on the phone had been nice enough to call while you were in the bathroom, wasn’t that so sweet of him?

After that, she’d gone back to making dinner like nothing had happened. Michael couldn’t tell if she was purposefully avoiding looking at his bandaged hands or not.  

Later that night, Michael pulled the piece of paper from his pocket again. The messy scrawl was vaguely familiar, like he’d seen it somewhere before. He disregarded the thought, pushing it out of his mind.

He put the number in his phone under the name “Jacket”, and texted a quick “thank you.”

He tossed his phone onto the sidetable, promptly forgetting all about waking up bruised and alone in a stranger’s home. It was only at school the next morning, in homeroom, when he dug the phone out of his bag to check the time that he saw the alert from the night before, blinking a bright orange. Unread.

“No problem. Just be careful next time.”

He smirked to himself, and typed a quick reply.

“No promises.”

He forgot about the phone again until he was getting changed for gym, and it slipped out of his pocket onto the wooden bench. He picked it up, seeing the light blinking again. Orange. Unread.

“Next time I won’t be there to keep you from getting stabbed. Stay safe, please?”

He frowned a little at that. Who did this guy think he was? Telling him what to do with his life. Fuck that, and the horse it rode in on.

“Oh yeah? Maybe you should just start following me around if you want to be a second mom.”

The reply was almost immediate this time, the phone blinking again before it had even left Michael’s hand. Orange. Unread.

“Name the place and I’ll be there.”

Michael scowled, and the bell to start class rang. He tossed the phone into his locker, not reclaiming it until almost two hours later. The message blinked, orange light. Unread.

“Why do you even fight in the first place?”

A second of confused deliberation, and then a hastily typed reply.

“Because I want to live until I die.”

Later, at lunch, Michael checked his phone again. Orange light. Unread.

“Doesn’t everybody? What makes your special brand of depression so different that you want to fight until you die?”

That hit Michael like a truck of bricks. The earnestness and flat out unimpressedness really caught him off guard. What made him special enough to die?

“I don’t know.”

He walked home that day, the weight of his phone in his pocket a constant reminder of the strange conversation he was having with this mystery person. He pulled it out, expecting the light to be blank like it had been since the last message. Orange light. Unread.

“Next time you get into a fight, call someone.”

“Can do.” Was all he could fire back. No snark this time, or even just simple sarcasm. Just a succinct answer.


	2. 7/11 Is Obviously The Best Place To Fight

“5th street, behind the 7/11.”

Michael sent the text before he could think about it, shoving the phone back in his pocket. He was waiting for the punk that had messed with him earlier to show up for their brawl, and the bitch was late. So, he’d sent a quick text to Jacket. Hey, the guy had asked, hadn’t he?

He was sitting on the curb for almost an hour, just waiting for the guy to show up. He was beginning to think he wasn’t going to show, and he should just go home. And then a blonde guy in a black leather jacket popped his head around the corner, holding him by the collar. He tossed the kid in front of Michael, like a lioness presenting her prey.

The kid looked pitiful, bloody snot dripping down his face. His nose looked off, like it was broken. One of his eyes was swollen shut, red and angry. Michael jumped off the curb and backed away, looking in a mix of horror and awe at Jacket, who was lighting up a cigarette, the smoke trailing upward in the cold fall air. Jacket looked at him expectantly, waiting for something.

“Well?”

“What do you mean, ‘well’?” Michael almost screamed. For some reason he was angry, so unbelievably angry. He couldn’t even bring himself to pity the kid on the ground that was sobbing like a child.

“I mean, aren’t you gonna kick his ass? Bloody your knuckles on his face? Break a couple of his teeth?” As Jacket talked, he seemed less and less angry and more disappointed. Michael could see that his knuckles were split, dripping blood onto the pavement.

“You fucking did it for me! This was my fucking fight!”

“Well that’s fucking stupid. You know who fights people to feel good about themselves? Cowards. You’re a fucking coward.”

Michael charges him, fist raised before the first step. He hits Jacket straight in the jaw, but the guy doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even drop his cigarette, even though Michael feels the force behind his punch crack his jaw. He punches him again, an uppercut to the gut that causes the old scabs on his knuckles to split open. Punching this guy was like punching steel.

“Michael, just stop,” Jacket says, grabbing his wrist. His grip is like iron, no matter how hard Michael squirms, he can’t free himself.

“Fuck you. Let me go so I can punch you some more.”

“You know what? You want to punch me? Fine, fucking do it.” Jacket throws his hand away like it’s burning, like Michael is made of hot coals. He doesn’t even step back, doesn’t try to dodge Michael’s punch. He winces, just slightly, as Michael’s fist connects with his eye, forcing his head to his shoulder.

For a second Michael feels relieved, triumphant, even. He’d gotten the fight he needed. But then Jacket didn’t react, didn’t try to punch back. Didn’t even back away. He just pulled a cardboard box from his jacket pocket and tossed it to Michael before walking off, back to wherever he came from. Michael looked down at the box in his hands, and immediately felt like complete garbage.

Bandaids. A box of bandaids. The good fabric kind, too, not the cheap shit.

He had half a mind to run after the guy, to apologize. Hell, while they’d been arguing the kid he’d wanted to fight in the first place had run away, so he really had nothing to do. He settled for taking the phone out of his pocket.

One light blinking. Orange. Unread.

“Was that everything you needed?”

Michael stood there, in the empty lot, for the next several texts, unmoving like a sentry at his post.

“Why didn’t you fight back, asshole?”

“Did you get everything you needed? That same rush from fighting someone else?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point. Why didn’t you fight back?”

“Text me whenever you need to feel alive, then.”

Michael wanted to respond, wanted to say something. He shoved the phone back in his pocket, walking home in an angry huff.

He grabbed his bag from his room, the cans inside rattling together as he shuffled down the street, looking for a suitable target.

\-----------

It showed up on social media the next day, spreading through the school like wildfire. Something about the artwork itself, or the mystery of the account that had sprung up overnight to host it had captivated the school.

The account itself was new, someone by the name of ‘jacketisanasshole’, and only had the one post on it. It was a shot of graffiti on the side of an abandoned factory wall, framed in the light coming in from the broken windows above it. It was a white and silver hand, extended toward a bloodied heart, the fingers splayed out, knuckles bleeding red paint down the wall. Underneath, in messy, angry scrawl was ‘Why didn’t you fight back?’ But, what really made the image, what really sent the school into a tizzy about it was the real, bandaged hand of the photographer, flipping off his creation.

The picture had almost a thousand likes by the end of the day, but Michael didn’t expect anything to come of it. Jacket didn’t seem like the type of guy to be on social media, let alone call out someone’s extremely vague vent art after meeting them twice. Well, one and a half times. That was why Michael was confused and annoyed to see his phone blinking at the end of third block. Orange light. Unread.

“Because you need someone to tell you when to stop.”

“When to stop? Who are you to tell me when to fucking stop? I can stop any time I want to.”

“It’s not that easy, Michael.” He thought back to their one sided fight, to the cigarette in Jacket’s hand that he’d held onto even through the punches.

“Fuck you.”

After that, there were no more texts for the almost the rest of the day, though Michael checked compulsively every hour on the hour. Then, at 8 o’clock, when he thought he might have finally driven him off, Jacket texted him again. Orange light. Unread.

The message itself wasn’t text at all, but a link to an Instagram post from an account named ‘jackethaywood’. The picture was of another bandaged hand, practically covered in cloth bandaids, and captioned ‘So you don’t have to.”

Michael almost threw his phone against the wall, but settled for letting it drop from his hands onto the sheets. Fucking hell, this guy was a piece of work, wasn’t he?


	3. Deal With The Devil

The next day, Michael picked a fight with the quarterback, just for the hell of it. Sure, the guy could kick his scrawny sophomore ass into next week, but he just needed a fight, needed to feel real. He waited all day, then went behind the bleachers, waiting for the other guy to show up.

And show up he did, battered and bloody already, and holding out a blue binder to Michael before practically sprinting away after he took it. Inside was a piece of scrawled loose leaf covering pages upon pages of schedules that looked incomprehensible.

“For you, so that you won’t get caught next time you want to vent. –Jacket”

It was police schedules, of all their major routes and blindspots. If he wasn’t desperately in need of such a book, Michael would have declined it on principle alone.

The next day, a second post appeared on the ‘jacketisanasshole’ account. This one was framed better, in plain daylight. It showed a lit cigarette, held in a hand that was bandaged almost identically to the other post, a pile of ash underneath it. The same angry scrawl as before covered the wall next to it. ‘I’m not sure if I should punch you or kiss you.’

Later that same day, ‘jackethaywood’ posted a picture of the same piece from a different angle, with different lighting, a bloodied hand and a menthol cigarette in the exact same position as the graffiti, and the caption ‘you’re welcome’.

At this point, Ray and Gavin were starting to get worried, and cornered Michael at the lunchtable the next day, their voices flush with concern.

“Michael, what the fuck? That shit’s gonna get you caught,” Ray hisses, referring to the fact that anyone who’d ever seen Michael’s art would instantly recognize it. Gavin just nodded vigorously beside him, his stupid hair flouncing up and down.

“Relax, dickweed. No one knows it’s me.”

“Uh-huh. And what happens when they do find out, what then?”

“They won’t find out. The only person that knows it’s me is…” he trailed off, not really wanting to explain the complicated set of circumstances that led him to know the mysterious “Jacket”.

“What? Who knows?”

Michael sighed, then continued. “The only person that knows it’s me is Jacket. The uh, the guy I painted the damn thing for in the first place.”

Ray raised an eyebrow, which really made him look like a disappointed mother. “Jacket? Is that a nickname or something?”

“Yeah, kinda. I don’t exactly know his name, so that’s what I call him. Kinda tall, blonde, wears a black leather jacket a lot?” The more he talks, the more he can see fear in the other lad’s faces, and the more scared he gets.

“Dude. Please tell me you’re not tagging buildings for Ryan motherfucking Haywood. Please, if there’s a lord above tell me that isn’t true.”

“Yeah, that might be him,” Michael admits, the name suddenly ringing a bell. “Oh shit, Haywood as in Deputy Haywood. That might explain a few things.”

“So let me get this straight-“

“I don’t think you’re capable of being straight about anything, but go on,” Michael interjects, earning him a disappointed sigh and a giggle from Gavin.

“So you’ve been tagging buildings?”

“Yeah.”

“For the son of a police officer, and the senior class’s valedictorian.”

“Yep. I also fought him at one point, too,” Michael adds, as if that’s a normal thing that people do all the time. Well, to him it is, but the normal populace thinks otherwise.

“So not only did you tag a bunch of buildings for him, you also fought him, like, physically fought him. Holy shit, dude, you must have either really good luck or a guardian angel, ‘cause they would’ve thrown my ass in juvie so quick your head would spin.”

“I guess so. I think it’s more like he wants to protect me from something, which is total bullshit. I haven’t been able to get a good fight in a while, especially not after word got around that somebody knocked the QB on his ass on my behalf.” Michael’s phone goes off in his pocket, a single orange light blinking. Unread.

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” Ray quips, before turning to ask Gavin about their English homework.

“I want to cut you a deal,” the text reads.

“What kind of deal?” Michael fires back. He gets a response almost immediately.

“A trade of sorts. I’ll let you start picking your own fights again if you promise to tag a building for each one.”

“How do you know it’s me tagging the buildings? Gonna tattle to your daddy about it?”

“The art style kinda gives you away. It’s too angry for its own good, but still manages to look put together. And don’t worry about my dad, I’ve got plenty of reasons to keep him as far from the truth as possible.”

That last message stirs something in Michael’s heart, for reasons he can’t exactly explain.

“Deal, motherfucker.”


	4. Art Therapy

The next day, Michael picks a fight with a freshman that’s almost twice his weight and still wins, the kid limping away with a broken tooth and a black eye.

The next day, he posts on his account again. This tag is different than the last ones, the colors much less vibrant, and much more muted. It’s a leather jacket, covered in painstakingly painted silver studs on the shoulder caps, the entire thing shines in the light of the flashlight behind the camera. Below it, there’s text that reads: ‘Back in the saddle.”

The day after that, Michael picks a fight with the captain of the wrestling team. He sends him packing within minutes, blood dripping from a cut on his face. Later that same day, Michael picks a second fight with the kid’s lackeys, and wins that one too. He almost never picks two fights in the same day. It makes him feel almost too real, like things actually mattered in the grand scheme of it all.

Later that day, ‘jacketisanasshole’ posts again. A chrome knife, covered in splashes of red, in a bruised, but not bloody hand. Like someone else had picked up a murder weapon. Underneath, in bright red text was ‘it doesn’t feel the same. I don’t feel real anymore.”

Michael went to bed that night with a plan. A plan that he fully intended on carrying out.

In the morning, he went to school, like nothing was wrong, and then sprinted over to the parking lot on 5th as soon as security would let him out the door. He texted Jacket, or whatever his real name was. He’d been told by someone at some point, but just couldn’t seem to remember.

Within the hour, the son of a bitch was there, standing in front of him, and smoking another fucking cigarette.

“Am I here to fight you, or what?” He asks, as if he doesn’t know the answer.

“No, I just want to talk. Just…I just need to talk,” Michael manages to cough out, between frenzied thoughts and trying to keep his plan on track. Which was going horribly, since the plan was to jump Jacket before he could _start_ talking.

Ever since that fight, Michael just didn’t feel like himself. Couldn’t get a handle on his own fucking emotions. Every punch he threw felt like poison in his gut, where once there’d been roses.

Jacket just looked at him, waiting for him to say something else, something to explain himself. After a few awkward seconds of silence, he just nodded.

“My car’s parked around the block. There are better places than this to talk, you know?”

Michael said nothing, just followed behind him. Was he really just going to get in this guy’s car? Wasn’t the plan to beat him up? Try to get back that good feeling? Well, that had been the plan. Keyword being ‘had’.

It was as short a walk as Jacket had said, right up to a rusting old Bronco that looked like it had been through a warzone, or atleast a good few Jersey winters. The doors were spattered with rust, paint not exactly peeling, but not looking great either. Michael climbed into the passenger seat, keeping as far from Jacket as he could manage while still sitting in the guy’s car. Jacket threw the car in gear, practically speeding down the street.

They drove for a while, not saying anything. The radio was tuned to some kind of alternative station full of music with heavy guitar and bass. The scenery turned from pine trees and wonderbread suburb houses to abandoned buildings, rusted out cars in overgrown yards. The car finally stopped in front of a huge building, half its windows broken, the front tagged and gratified beyond belief.

The front door was locked with a chain and boarded up with plywood. Jacket kicked a sheet out, ducking through the hole left in its wake. For just a second, Michael paused. Was he really going to follow this kid into this dark building? This couldn’t be safe.

Disregarding all the rules of stranger danger, Michael climbed through the door and into what he immediately could tell was an abandoned waiting room. The chairs were still there, rotting in their places, covered in pockmarks from burning cigarettes. The front desk looked long rotted, half fallen to the ground. The entire place smelled like woodrot and death.

Jacket beckoned him over to a stairwell, with (thankfully) concrete steps that led all the way to the roof. There was nothing but the sound of their own footsteps to keep them company, which started to drive Michael crazy. How tall was this fucking building?

Jacket opened a door at the top, standing aside to let Michael pass. The roof was empty, covered in tar and gravel. The view was something else, though, like nothing Michael had ever seen before. The sun was just starting to set, the yellow and red hues reflecting off the glass of the city below them, from the town center to the outskirts. Lights were on in the city, cars whizzing down the busy streets like ants in some great ant farm. It all looked so small from up here, so insignificant. Like one piece in a boundless puzzle.

Beside him, Jacket sat down, feet hanging over the edge of the roof. He lit another cigarette and just waited. When he was done gawking, Michael sat down next to him, crossing his legs instead of letting them dangle.

“You said you wanted to talk?” Jacket says, like it’s the obvious answer to a question that nobody asked.

“Yeah, I did. I wanted to ask you a couple things.”

“Ask away, I’m all ears.”

“Why’d you save me? That day when I almost got bunced.”

“Because it was the right thing to do.” Jacket’s face contorts, and Michael can tell that that’s not the full answer. He just waits, silently hoping he’ll continue.

“And because I thought I might be able to help you.”

“Help me with what? I’m fine.”

Jacket laughs mirthlessly, pulling his phone from his pocket. He scrolls through for a second before repeating part of their conversation.

“‘Because I want to live until I die.’ You recognize that line?”

“Yeah,” Michael starts, wanting to defend himself. Jacket raises a hand to stop him, and suddenly he can’t speak.

“I recognized it too. Back when my mom was still around, that’s what she used to say all the time. “Ryan, honey, you have to live until you can’t live anymore.’” Jacket chuckles again, though his face looks more in grief than anything. “She overdosed on prescription drugs when I was twelve. Pretty ironic, huh? Married to the law, and dies of an overdose? My dad was never really the same after that. He started getting angry, hitting things, hitting people.” Jacket turns to him, looking him straight in the eye.

“I saw that same glint in your eye when you hit me that I saw with every single punch I took from my dad. And I thought…” he sighs, turning back to the sunset and taking a drag. “I thought I might be able to catch it early enough to keep someone else from turning into him. Lance the tumor, y’know.”

Michael was struck dumb, the words catching in his throat. He wants so desperately to defend himself, to say something, to explain. And he just…can’t.

“Guess I was wrong. You have your reasons, I can’t ask you to explain them I gue-“ Jacket starts, getting up. Michael grabs his arm and pulls him back down, as gently as possible.

“It’s because I feel insignificant. I feel like the whole world is so much bigger and more important than me, so I try to take it on, one punch at a time. It’s…it’s a stupid reason, but it’s all I got. And when…when you just let me punch you, I think it kinda shocked me out of it. I realized I was hurting _people_ , not the world.” Michael puts a hand over his mouth, realizing he’s been spilling his life story to someone he didn’t even know.

Jacket just nods, pulling himself up from the ledge. Michael follows him back down the stairs and out the door. The ride back is quiet, save for the drone of the radio. He lets Jacket drop him off in the parking lot, then walks home.

The next day, ‘jacketisanasshole’ posts again. This one looks like it’s on the wall of some kind of warehouse, on the thick metal door. A wilting rose, covered in some kind of green gunk that’s melting it, blackening the petals like it’s burning it alive. Underneath, in the familiar angry scrawl is ‘help me feel real’ in black letters. The picture is just captioned ‘I’m sorry’.

Michael wakes up on Saturday, and checks his phone in a sleepy haze. Orange light. Unread.

“I don’t know how.”

That sentence stops Michael in his tracks. Jacket, the guy who seemed to know everything, was lost. Well fuck. Michael sits there for a long while, the early morning sun filtering though his window and reflecting off the glass.

“636, on 7th and Broad. I want to start over.”

Michael got dressed, giving his hair a quick fluff, and pulling on a pair of his most comfortable shoes. They were a pair of stupid checked vans that Ray had gotten him for his birthday; real emo kid stuff, but damn if they weren’t comfortable. Before long, Jacket’s car pulled up outside, and Michael grabbed his bag and rushed out of the house before his mom could ask where he was going.

He hopped into the passenger seat, tossing his bag onto the bench seat.

“So where are we going?” Jacket asks, readily accepting the fact that he was a temporary chauffer.

“The hospital.”

“It’s called Mercy Medical, just so you know,” he replies jolting the car to a start.

“I don’t care what it’s called, I just need to get there.”

“Fair enough.”

The rest of the drive passes in silence, that same radio station playing the same tune from the other day. It’s like it was stuck on repeat or something. Michael is more than glad when they get to the hospital, practically leaping from the car to escape. He grabs his bag from the back, and ducks through the hole in the plywood sheeting, waiting for Jacket to catch up.

He took a can from his bag, the familiar sound of metal on metal clinking as calming as any joint Ray had ever rolled. He worked wordlessly on the wall of the waiting room, while Jacket just stood back and waited. He heard a lighter click at one point and had half a mind to tell him off about it. Fumes and fire don’t mix well.

After almost an hour, it was done. Probably the biggest, most intricate work he’d ever tagged. It was a fire burning over a cityscape, like napalm over a forest. It was all burning, and scorched, but there were no people in it, no traces of human life beside the burning cars and houses. No humanity. Underneath it, he scrawled a quick message, and took a picture, before calling for Jacket’s attention.

“’Burn the world with me, ‘til there’s nothing left’?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. Okay sure.”

“Sure? That’s all, just sure?”

“Let’s watch the world burn, then. Send it up in flames if it’ll make you feel better. Make the world fall at your feet with the sheer power of your art, I get it.” Jacket puts up his hands in capitulation, smiling more gently than Michael would’ve guessed was possible for him. Damn if he didn’t look good though. “It’ll piss off my dad to no end, and anything that does that is the fucking best in my book.”

“I thought…”

“Nah, he doesn’t try that shit anymore. I broke his arm, and he stopped after that. Turns out, even monsters are scared of me.” He laughs, tossing his long burned out menthol to the ground and crushing it under his boot.

“Sometimes that’s a good thing.”

“Sure is.”

“Too bad I’m not scared of you, though.”

“Too scared to use my real name. What am I, Voldemort?”

“Well, you see, I don’t actually know your name,” Michael admits sheepishly. Jacket laughs, a deep laugh that makes Michael’s heart race for reasons he can’t quite explain.

“It’s Ryan. Ryan Haywood.”

“Michael Jones. I mean, that’s me. I’m Michael Jones,” he stutters, thrown off for a second.


	5. "Bring Your Idiots," He Said. "It'll Be Fun," He Said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I would update this every week, but hey, it's american thanksgiving, which is kinda sorta like christmas so...yeah, I don't have a good excuse for posting this early.

Ray looked up from the screen as Michael told him all about meeting Ryan, about the hospital, about the whole story. He already had a comfortable lead on Gavin, who was squawking in the seat next to him. They were all clustered together on Michael’s couch, playing half-hearted games of Halo.

“So you’ve been hanging out with this guy all week instead of us?”

“Is he hot?” Gavin interjects eagerly.

“Gavin, if you lay a hand on him, I will rip it off of you.”

“Oooh, is my little Micoo jealous?” Gavin croons, leaning into Michael’s personal space before getting pushed away.

“Fuck off, dude, it’s not like that.”

“I mean, there’s definitely something there. I wouldn’t take on someone with a knife to save your ass, and you’re my best friend, dude,” Ray says, headshotting Gavin for the 60th time.

“And just being totally okay with your whole ‘warpath to an early death’ thing? That’s definitely gotta mean something,” Gavin adds, slapping the controller out of Ray’s hand.

“I mean…I don’t know, maybe. I kinda figured it was more like Max and Furiosa. Kinda just watching the world go to shit together.”

“You reference that movie way too much, dude.”

“No I don’t, that’s like the first time.”

“You got drunk on riot punch and screamed ‘Witness me!’ and then jumped off Lindsay’s roof.”

“Okay, so that was one time. Cut me some slack.”

“Fair enough. But seriously, Michael, something’s going on with that guy.”

“I mean, he’s the son of a police officer, so it’s not like he’s gonna murder me.”

“I think that makes him more likely to murder you.”

“Look, I’ll ask him, alright? I’ll fucking ask him if that makes you feel better.” Michael pulls the phone from his pocket, the light already blinking orange. Unread.

“Hey, you busy?”

“Not really, what’s up?”

“I want you to come see something. Something big.”

“Well, I’m kinda hanging out with friends right now.”

“Bring them with you. My car’s big enough, I’m sure.”

“You’re not gonna murder us, right?”

“Nah, wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Alright then, sure. Text me when you’re outside.”

Michael looked away from his phone to see both Ray and Gavin staring at him, amused smiles on their faces. He ignored their knowing looks, and tossed the phone onto the table in front of him.

“Ryan wants to go somewhere,” he says succinctly.

“So you’re ditching us for Ryan? You’ve known each other for like, three weeks!” Gavin protests, his voice raising an insane amount of octaves, and making Michael’s head start to hurt.

“No, you smarmy half-wit, you guys are coming along. It’ll be like a roadtrip, but less of a roadtrip and more of a- you know what? Just hop in the car when it gets here and you’ll see.” Michael dismisses him with a hand wave.

They get in one more game, during which Gavin gets absolutely destroyed, before Michael’s phone blinks orange. Unread.

“I’m outside.”

“Get ready to meet the parents.”

“I’ve already met your mom, though.”

“I didn’t mean my actual parents.”

Before Michael can send that final text, Ray and Gav are already rushing the door, fumbling with the lock. Michael can only sigh as he watches them crowd around the driver’s side window, probably levying questions and empty threats at poor Ryan. He walks over, practically dragging Gavin back by his collar so that he can pop his head through the window.

“Hey, sorry about the less than warm welcome.”

Ryan laughs, running a hand through his hair. For some reason, Michael feels an intense need to help him with that, which he quickly shrugs off.

“Nah, it’s no problem. I can deal with a couple of idiots for a few seconds.”

“Rude, first of all,” Ray says, climbing into the backseat and scooching over to make room for Gavin.

“Shut up, you know it’s true,” Michael responds through the window, before rounding the front of the still running car and hopping in the front passenger seat. He had constant rule of shotgun, which the rest of the lads respected.

“So where we goin’, Rye Bread?” In the backseat, Gavin and Ray share another infuriatingly knowing glance.

“Mercy Med. Got something to show you that I’ve been working on.” Ryan grins, and Michael’s heart suddenly swells with pride over whatever it is he wants to show him. He hasn’t even seen it yet, but he knows it’ll be good.

“So Ryan…” Ray starts, pointedly ignoring Michael deathglaring him through the rearview mirror. “What’re your intentions with our Michael? Planning on turning him into the police? Murdering him in a factory somewhere?”

“Not particularly. And uh, as for my intentions…I’m not exactly sure what they are. Nothing horrible, I can assure you.”

“Not exactly the most comforting answer.”

“Well, it’s much less sappy and childish than the real one.”

“Which would be?”

“We’re just friends, Ray, lay off,” Michael answers for him, before he can get into any specifics.

“So you guys aren’t banging?” At that, Ryan laughs so hard that he almost swerves off the road, accidentally causing Ray to slam into the door. Accidentally. Totally on accident.

“No, we’re not ‘banging’,” he responds, regaining control of the car.

“At least not yet,” Gavin jokes, and Michael has half a mind to jump back there and strangle him right then. Ryan doesn’t seem to react to it, which is strange. Usually he had some sort of clever retort or something, but this time his face just turned ever so slightly red.

Seeing he’d hit a nerve, Gavin started tittering, drawing Ray into it with him. That was team lads for you. One second you were screaming at them at the top of your lungs, and the next thing you knew, they’d roped you into a pool of hot smoke and video games.

Michael managed to steer the conversation away from dicks for a couple minutes, at least until the car stopped in front of the familiar brick façade. Ryan stopped the car, and got out, opening the passenger door for Gavin and Ray like a true gentleman.

Michael led the little mismatched crew through the broken plywood sheet, and was almost amazed at what he saw.

Red arrows pointing up the stairs, in a tag style he didn’t recognize, but at the same time was extremely familiar. He followed them up the stairwell, to the second floor, then down the decrepit passage to a big hall he assumed used to be a meeting room.

Inside was the tattered old armchair he’d seen in Ryan’s apartment, a blanket thrown over it. There were cans of spray paint everywhere, their contents covering the institutional green of the hospital walls in a mix of different shades and colors. In the corner, there was an old leather punching bag, like one you’d see in a boxing movie, painstakingly hung from one of the metal ceiling struts. The broken tile floor was covered in more rugs than Michael could count, in a mismatched quilt of different colors and patterns. There was a gas lantern and a half filled ashtray on a creaky sidetable, and what looked like a rolled up air mattress in one corner of the room.

“I had to pull some strings for the punching bag, they’re not so easy to find, you know,” Ryan said from behind him.

“What is this, Ryan?”

“Well I figured if you need to take out frustration on something, it should be around people that know enough about you to tell you when to stop. Hence, why I said to bring your idiots.” Said idiots were currently trying to duck under Michael’s arms to get a look into the room.

“And uh, if you just need to get away for a while, I guess you have someplace to go that isn’t a 7/11 parking lot now.”

Michael turns around, hoping the shock on his face isn’t as obvious as he thinks it is, and wraps his arms around Ryan in the tightest hug he’s ever given. The older boy smooths his hair, and for a second, Michael feels something. He feels important, like he might play a bigger part in the grand scheme of things. And then he pulls away, and the feeling fades. Gone as fast as it came.

“Thank you so much,” he manages to whisper, which makes Ryan give one of his signature grins, the one that lights up his eyes and makes him look better than anyone else Michael’s ever seen in his life. And then something crashes behind him, and he turns and sees Ray and Gavin in a heap. Someone tripped over a rug corner and brought the other down, but they were so tangled up that Michael couldn’t tell who the original culprit was.

“God, if they’re this uncoordinated sober, I can only imagine how they get when they’re drunk.”


	6. Conservation of Warmth

Outside the frosted window, snow was coating the ground around the hospital, leaving everything covered in a coat of white. It looked like a winter wonderland, at least from where Michael was curled up in the corner of the room on the air mattress, wrapped in more blankets than he could count. Ryan was across the room, smoking and reading a book in the chair. He put out his cigarette, reaching for another from his pocket.

Michael coughed, and he put his hand back down.

“Sorry. It’s a hard habit to break.”

“I’m not asking you to stop, just maybe slow down a little.” Ryan smiled at that, causing Michael’s face to warm, even in the freezing December air.

It was something that’d been happening for a while now. Ryan would smile, or laugh, or even just say something cute, and Michael would melt into a puddle. Of course, he wasn’t going to do anything about it. That just wasn’t happening. What would he even say? ‘Hey, I know we kinda started hanging out ‘cause you wanted to save me from fighting myself into an early grave, but I really like you, do you want to go out sometime?’ That’d be fucking stupid.

And yet, every time he snuck out to the hospital, every time he found Ryan curled up in the chair, reading a book, or fast asleep, his heart couldn’t help but race. He wanted to be important to him. More important than he was now, at least.

“I’m down to only a couple a day,” Ryan offers hopefully.

“Good, that’s good. It’s fucking cold in here.”

“Yeah, that’s winter for you. It’s usually very, very cold.”

“Asshole.”

Ryan laughs, dog earing the corner of his book and setting it on the table. He pushes his hair back out of his face, a few pieces immediately falling back into place.

“You know, some of us don’t even have tons of blankets to keep us warm.”

“Nobody told you that you had to wear the ratty old jacket all year. You could’ve worn a coat.”

“Hey, the jacket’s part of my brand. It’s a part of my whole aesthetic now.”

“Aesthetic. Jesus Christ.”

“Hey, that’s partly your fault.”

“My fault?”

“Yeah. Your art account is literally called ‘jacketisanasshole’. Gotta keep up appearances.”

“You’re a dork, Ryan,” Michael giggles, before a cold chill goes down his spine, making his voice jump. Ryan gives him a look, before crossing the room and sitting next to him on the side of the bed.

“What are you-“ Michael starts, before Ryan moves the blankets back, climbing in next to him. The cold leather of his sleeve causes Michael to flinch away, and he thinks for a second before taking it off and dropping it to the floor before curling up next to him again.

He smiles innocently, seemingly ignoring the shock on the lad’s face.

“Conservation of warmth. It’s like having a free space heater!” He exclaims excitedly. Michael reaches out, pulling one of Ryan’s arms close to his chest. His fingers were cold, even more so the scars crisscrossing them.

For a long time, neither of them said anything, just lying there in the silent damp of the hospital’s never ending calm. Michael looked at Ryan occasionally, seeing the older boy scanning the walls, or looking at a point over his head, never directly at him. He rolled over, pressing his back against Ryan’s chest, repositioning one of his arms over his waist.

Ryan made a surprised noise, but didn’t protest, or say anything sarcastic. He just fully accepted it, resting his chin on the top of Michael’s head, running a finger up and down the lad’s spine.

Michael barely noticed his cold feet anymore. In fact they were the furthest thing from his mind. All he could think of was how nice this moment was. How perfect everything looked. How he finally felt like a human being again, like he actually mattered.

Here and now, in this moment, Michael Vincent Jones mattered to the universe.

“I don’t want to go home, Ryan.”

“It’s cold outside, your mom will get worried…”

“I’ll tell her I’m sleeping over at your house to finish a project.”

“Michael…”

“Ryan, please,” Michael pleads, dropping his aggressive demeanor for just a second. “Just stay with me. Just for today, just stay with me.”

“Okay, alright, I’ll stay.”

“Okay. Okay, good.” Michael wants to say more, to say all the things passing through his head. ‘Ryan, you’re everything I want.’ ‘I finally feel alive when I’m with you.’ ‘I love you.’ He can almost hear that last one, ever so quiet in his ear. Wait, in his ear?

“Michael, I love you. I love you so much.”

It’s not him, it’s Ryan. It’s Ryan saying that. Saying ‘I love you’. To him, to Michael. Holy shit.

“I love you too. So much more than you could ever know. Meeting you was the best thing that could’ve happened to me.”

“I thought you hated me?” Ryan asks, and Michael turns to look at him. The older boy looks severely confused, his eyebrows knitted together.

“I could never hate you. Why would you even think that?”

“I dunno. I just figured you thought I was some pretentious prick. I mean, you did punch me in the face at one point.”

“Ryan, you stopping me from self-destructing was a fucking godsend, and you know it. I was a man on a fucking ledge and you caught me.” Michael tries not to sound angry, but he can hear his voice raising. “You were everything that I wasn’t, and I’m so fucking grateful for that.”

“I’m not as put together as you think I am. I have… panic attacks, sometimes. Really bad ones. That’s why I started smoking in the first place. Something about the nicotine keeps most of them at bay, but I can’t keep holding on forever.” Michael almost laughs, not because it’s funny, but because he finally know the answer to a question that’s plagued him since the time they first met. Ryan had saved him from the switchblade because he thought Michael was something he could never truly be: confident.

“Ryan, can you humor me for a second?”

“Michael, I-“

“Nope, just humor me. I want you to think about your car for a second. Okay?”

“Alright.”

“Alright. So your car is a broken down piece of shit. You’re constantly under the damn thing tightening belts and changing gears and all that shit, right? The paint is peeling off, there’s rust all over it. It’s garbage.”

“Is there a point to this, or are you just ragging on my car some more?”

“Quiet. My point is, you keep the car around even though it has problems because you love it. You love that fucking car, even though it has too many issues to count. You love _me_ , even though I have too many problems to count. So how dare you, _how fucking dare you_ , think I don’t feel the same way about you?”

Ryan moves forward, pressing his lips to Michael’s. He almost backs away in surprise, but instead melts into the kiss. Ryan tastes like mint and tobacco, but Michael doesn’t care. He couldn’t care less if it were the not caring Olympics. After a brief moment, Ryan pulls back, leaving both of them breathing heavily into the cold air, wisps of white ice trailing into the atmosphere.


End file.
